The sun is settling behind the trees, my reading of Hunter S. Thompson's personal collection of letters has motivated me to begin writing again. However, before I can start a bevy of black carpenter ants march across my deck. The do not live here,, we pay an exterminator do drive them to the neighbor's. They just use our yard as a pathway between their main home in one neighbor's tree and our other neighbor's fence.
Distracted by their presence, I fail to begin my authoring endeavors. I smack one ant with a flip flop and the rest scatter. I disdainfully wipe the crushed bug from the bottom of my flip flop as I track the remaining interlopers.
Two more are crushed with quick certainty and my cat-like reflexes. They distract me long enough for one of their compatriots to get beyond my direct reach. Unbeknownst to them, I could have qualified for the Olympics if flip flop tossing were on their list of accepted competitions. With a casual, almost nonchalant toss of my flip flop the running charlatan is smothered by cheap imported plastic/rubber footwear.
The carnage makes the survivors scurry in chaotic circles. I chamber my remaining piece of casual summer footwear in my right hand and begin dispatching the remaining trespassers. As the remaining ant dives between the decking boards and away from my capacity to strike, I grow impatient as I am in a hurry to move on to my creative endeavor of blogging.
"You have to surface sometime!" I find myself calling aloud, almost upbraiding the surviving transgressor as Ahab once screamed at the white whale.
As if on queue, the last of the transgressors raises to the surface of the decking, making on last gallant attempt at escape. I pause, not sadistically mind you, but quizzically, pondering if I have some hidden skill or ability to communicate or command insects. My mind clears of such foolish thoughts and I dispatch the last of the pack.
I gaze about the field of battle, satisfied there are no more enemies to slay; I pick up my iPhone and begin to blog.
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